


Swordplay

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Earth C Shenanigans [17]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Earth C, Everyone Is Alive, Gen, and bro's not a prince, d's uh. well he's not a knight!, everyone is slowly going godtier if they want to, liberties taken with god tier abilities because i can't be bothered to go look any up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:49:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Something in your head, in your heart, whispersnoand whispersthis is what Stridersdo, this is all the love we give, and you don't—that's right, isn't it? Isn't it? It is. It has to be. Striders teach each other to defend themselves, hand over tools andforcetheir use.D goes godtier and has...well, a conversation with someone else who's also taken advantage of that little game mechanic.
Series: Earth C Shenanigans [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1059881
Comments: 33
Kudos: 98





	Swordplay

Your name is D Strider, although before you changed it it was Dave and before _that_ it was something else entirely. There's plenty of records of _Dave Strider, director of epically shitty movies and attempted defender of mankind_ , but there's no records of the other name. Turns out people like to assume the deadname they found—the one you don't give a fuck about—is all there is.

Your name isn't the issue here, anyway. The issue here is who you _are_. Or maybe it's what you've done, and what you've done is die. You died thousands of years before the kid you're texting (well, he's not a kid anymore but he's still _your_ kid) drew his first breath on earth—cut down on the lawn of what was supposedly the greatest bastion of freedom in the world. That was bullshit, though, and you think towards the end everyone knew it, even without the clowns.

God, you get a headache whenever you think about it just from how stupid it was. Clowns. Fucking _juggalos_. Dumbass way to die.

Then again, the headache could be from the fact you just died again. This time was less dramatic, less traumatic—there's probably something sordid and embarrassing about administering a lethal overdose on a stone table in your doppleganger's boyfriend's basement, but hey, whatever works. And it did work—you keep getting sidetracked from the text you need to send Dirk promising him that _yes, I'm alive again_ by the clothes you've woke up in.

They're red. Deep rusty red, not quite maroon. That's what you expected—Dave's are the same color, when he bothers to wear them—but see, you expected, well...

... _pants._

technicolorGladiator [TG] started pestering timaeusTestified [TT] !

TG: eyyy i'm alive!  
TG: where'd my pants goI

TT: ...excuse me?

TG: pants  
TG: you know like leg sleeves? ccover the naughty bits, aren't a skirt?  
TG: the knight outfit comes with pants right?

AI: Personal preference might make it a dick out kind of look, but yes, that particular class's garb includes pants.

TT: Are you naked in Karkat's basement?

TG: wh  
TG: no!  
TG: a skirt. dress. whatever. jesus fucking christ, dirk

TT: ...you ended up in a dress after you ascended?

TG: dress, skirt, robe, what-fucking-ever

AI: Hmm.   
AI: I mean, there _are_ several classes which would default to a dress. Witch comes to mind.

TG: ehhh i've seen jade all gussied up for official space business and that ain't what this is   
TG: not ruffly enough  
TG: here hold up

technicolorGladiator sent fuckingexcusemewherearemypants.jpeg!

AI: Ah. Seer.

TT: Those are Seer robes.  
TT: God fucking dammit, Hal.

AI: Ha, ha. You have human reaction time and typing speed.  
AI: Brother-baiting aside, this isn't totally unforeseen. I have a different class and aspect from Dirk, and I'm much closer to him than you are to Dave.

TG: huh. weird  
TG: do i absolutely have to keep the dress though  
TG: like. no offense but this is even less my style than the knight pjs were going to be  
TG: my taste in dresses runs either elegant or slutty and this is neither 

TT: Please. For the love of god. Don't make your godtier getup slutty. 

AI: I don't know, _I'd_ like to see it.

TT: _No._

TG: damn kid you're no fun  
TG: but fine, i'll go elegant   
TG: or just switch back to my other clothes. pretty sure there's a way to do  
TG: aw shit i'm going to have to text y'all later

AI: What?

You probably should take time to explain, but the flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye is the more pressing matter right now. It's probably nothing...but then again, you're still a bit used to the possibility of it being something, and old habits die hard—you hit the disconnect button and shove your phone into a pocket (hey, this dress thing has pockets; that's a point in its favor) rising to your feet from the stone slab in a motion that almost feels _too_ smooth. More godtier shit, probably.

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if you can fly. But no, now isn't the time.) 

It only takes one quick scan of the room to find the source of the movement; you _almost_ pass over him for the simple reason that he isn't moving now. He's gone from too-fast to standing statue-still in the corner, facing you with his arms crossed, in the time it took you to drop your phone and stand. It's that uncanny state-switching that Striders fucking _excel_ at, and boy do you hate it right now!

Fuck. You didn't want to see your alt-self's brother, Dirk's equivalent in the universe neither he nor you was meant to ever touch. You _especially_ didn't want to see him dressed in familiar deep pinks edging towards purple, an outfit that you don't recognize and suspect he's altered—the ballcap's a tipoff, as is the...

"Oh come on. Even I know godtier isn't a dick out kind of look."

Maybe he blinks at that, maybe not—the sharp shades are mirrored, reflecting a fuchsia-hued reality back to you. One platinum-gold eyebrow rises with all the smoothness of hours of practice in a bathroom mirror, though. It's a question, maybe _what the fuck are you talking about?_ even though what you're talking about is obvious. You'd have to be blind to miss the phallic addition to his outfit.

Then again. Doesn't matter. What matters is that, by the terms of the unofficial restraining order put forth by Dirk, Hal, and even Dave himself, this bitch isn't allowed to be here. Not in Karkat's basement. Not in a house where Dave knows he can be safe.

You were aware of the act of standing up. Not so much the act of drawing your sword—it's just suddenly in your hand, where it belongs, and you let your eyes drop for a fraction of a second—thinking _hello there_ , thinking _ah, shit, here we go again_ —and you look back up and oh—there's his. That stupid piece of shit katana, a cheap blade not even shown the care you and Dirk show for your working weapons. To him it's barely even a tool, treated with the same detached disdain he showed his little bro, and hey, look. You're _pissed_. You're on your feet with your sword in your hand, turning slowly to keep facing the bastard as he begins to circle you. Four steps, thirty degrees out of three hundred and sixty, and you're facing him over the stone table you died on. The one you _both_ died on, come to think of it.

"I'm not playing this game." Each word comes out of your mouth like a knife embedding itself halfway to the hilt in heavy wood—flat and final, with no opportunity to take it back. "You know what we think about you. You lost your claim to the Strider name when you—"

Oh shit he's fast. You're halfway between surprised and nearly _euphoric_ with the adrenaline rush that comes from whirling just as fast as your opponent, getting your sword up with a block that's timed down to the millisecond melting into a parry that becomes an attack of your own. He doesn't block, knows better than to block—your watered steel blade will snap his cheap stainless like a cocktail umbrella—and he's only just fast enough with his dodge. Hell, if he didn't scramble to the side, up and across the stone slab with the moon engraved on the surface? He wouldn't have been fast enough, and this would've been over.

But hey, where's the fun in that?

_Fun._ Right. You hear the growl in your own throat as you vault up on top of the stone as he rolls off it. Smart move—solid as it is, the drop off at the edges makes it inherently untenable—but it still puts him on the floor, lower than you, in the perfect position for a fucking _devastating_ blow with your weight and momentum behind it—

In your head, something doubles.

He's below you. Defenseless. He doesn't even have his sword in position yet—your attack is going to be the end of this for sure, but fuck...can you? He's not even _blocking_ , jesus fuck, his back is to you, you need to pull the punch and turn your blade—

But at the same time you see how fast he can move. How fast he _will_ move. His katana's shitty, sure, but he's perfectly capable of angling it to slide neatly between your ribs, and he _will_. He will.

You can feel it like an echo, phantom coldness knifing deep through your chest. It startles you badly enough that instead of the weird urge for mercy, you follow through with the attack you started...and sure enough, he twists cat-quick with a parry that's clumsier than you expect from him. Like he was _certain_ you'd falter and leave an opening instead of finishing the motion.

No. No, you're being paranoid. He's not going to kill you—

Wait, where the fuck did that thought come from? You blink away a ghost-image of his next attack, parry and lunge as he proves that thought prophetic—of course it's fucking prophetic, you're a _Seer_ now—and struggle to sift through your thoughts. He _would_ kill you, just like you've tried to kill him when he thought he could harass Dave as long as he made himself useful—you're his enemy.

Aren't you? 

...but. But something in your head, in your heart, whispers _no_ and whispers _this is what Striders_ do _, this is all the love we give_ , and you don't—that's right, isn't it? Isn't it?

It is. It has to be. Striders teach each other to defend themselves, hand over tools and _force_ their use—

He draws back, head cocking to the side as he watches you. It's not a proper defensive stance, but it doesn't need to be—you're not going to attack him. Not when all he's doing is—

Images flash through your mind—a cascade of memories not quite your own, shit you should know about let alone be able to see like this. A reminder of exactly what he _is_ doing here, and one memory wholly yours: Rose, running through classes and aspects for you.

_Bards destroy just as effectively as Princes,_ she said, _but less consciously._ As in, instead of ripping your heart apart, this bastard coaxes and cajoles, gives you little subconscious nudges to take his side and break your own heart.

And he's sure he's got you. _Bastard._

You shake your head slowly and lower your sword. When he nods in what must be satisfaction and changes his grip on his own, you strike with all the speed he thinks only _he_ can command.

The cheap pressed steel shatters at the blow, just like you thought it would. There's a second where you still might have been in trouble if he moved—that heartbeat before any of the shards hit the floor—but he's frozen, staring at the hilt in his hands. Shocked, you think, even if the mirrored lenses and the face beneath them don't betray a damn thing. He didn't expect to have his weapon fail him like this.

Speaking of the shades...

He's a few steps away from the wall. You don't bother with trying to threaten him back at the point of a sword—no, you slam your shoulder into his chest, shove until you feel the impact with solid wood and stone drive the breath from his lungs.

Then you backstep. If it was you standing there you'd be dead in that heartbeat, but you flick your sword upward instead of driving it home, sending his shades skittering across the floor. Before he can even move to retrieve them you bring your heel down, keeping your eyes on his as you grind the lenses into shards and powder. 

"We're not playing this game." You enunciate each word carefully, keeping the tip of your sword just barely touching the hollow of his throat. "This isn't _love_. This isn't _being a Strider_. This is _shit_ , and if you try it again I'm setting something so much worse than me you can't even _comprehend_ it on you."

He's silent. Somehow you're not surprised.

"No more," you tell him. And it's Karkat's fault, what you do next—the two too-quick-to-track motions of your sword, that leave matching slashes across each side of his face under those furious golden eyes.

They bleed more than they did in the movie. Most things do. He doesn't flinch, and you lower your sword and point wordlessly to the stairs.

As he flashsteps towards them, you sink down to sit on the stone slab again, and dig in your pocket for your phone. Dirk's going to kill you for not calling him in, you think.


End file.
